Them: Good Evening! Thank you for calling Joe’s Multiplex. How may we serve you?

Me: Hi! Listen, I know I’m not supposed to be using my cell phone in a movie theater, especially after watching 15 minutes of cute cartoons about how unforgivably rudeit is to ruin others’ moviegoing experience like that. But I’m sitting waaaaay down here in theater 93 WITH SOME FUCKING ASSHOLE WHO BROUGHT A SCREAMING BABY INTO THE OPENING NIGHT OF A PG-13 MOVIE, so if you could maybe send an usher or seven down here to just stare at this INCONSIDERATE PRICK until he takes his child out into the hall, I would be most pleased to put my phone away and enjoy this lovely movie with the rest of this room full of people who dropped ten bucks a pop and for that much money deserve to be able to watch their movie in peace, don’t you think? Thanks a bunch.

Just one zombie’s humble opinion here, but I think if you tallied up the total number of uses (and misuses) of this word and its many variants in every published work across the entire history of the written word, you would find three things:

Share this:

“HOW IS MOCKING MY WIFE AND HER TERMINAL HEALTH CONDITION ANY DIFFERENT OR BETTER THAN MY FOLLOWING THROUGH WITH AGGRESSIVE REPORTING ON LEE STRANAHAN’S TRAGIC LOSS?”

Well, here’s one difference…what you did was ostensibly to make you feel like you had a job and were doing WORK.

I’m only doing it for FUN.

All I have is FUN.

But, for the sake of discussion, let me stipulate to the idea that it is no different. Not in the slightest bit is it any different.

Does that make you feel better?

How about if I promise, cross my rotting black heart and hope to un-die, that in two years, after you and She Who Shall Not Be Named are long gone and forgotten (the Good Lord willing and the creek don’t rise), I write a dozen or so squishy and meaningless here’s-my-excuse-isn’t-it-a-good-one non-apology apologies just like you?

Will THAT make you feel better?

Okay? Okay.

That’s what I’ll do.

Deal? Deal.

Be well.

P.S. If you have a problem with my blog, I have a simple solution for you. Stop reading it. If you’re addicted to it, you can always gouge your eyes out. That’ll fix it.

P.P.S. Of course all promises here at Thinking Man’s Zombie come guaranteed to be no more sincere or enforceable than the promise of a demented cyberstalking freak to leave Twitter. So I got that going for me. Which is nice.

UPDATE – for you Zombies, that P.S. is a near word-for-word reproduction of a comment that the Emperor of Overshares left a few days ago in reply to someone’s reaction to one of his blog posts. So, you know…fuck him if he can’t live up to his own rules.

On a related note, after I stipulate that what I do for FUN! is just the same as what he did to the Stranahan’s, he wants to say what I do is evil?

I’m fine with that. If the ramifications of that admission escape him, THAT’S NOT MY PROBLEM.

You see, the REAL difference between what he does and what I do is this: I DELETE NOTHING. I CAME INTO THIS WITH EYES WIDE OPEN, AND I AM IN IT TO THE END. I DON’T PISS AND MOAN, I DON’T WHINE LIKE A LITTLE GIRL, AND I SURE AS HELL DON’T PRETEND TO FEEEEEL BAD WHEN I HAVE TO DELETE ENTIRE BLOGS TO COVER MY ASS BECAUSE OOPSIE POOPSIE. NO, I DECIDED TO COVER MY ASS ON DAY ONE, SO I COULD SAY WHAT I’M GOING TO SAY. YOU’LL CALL THAT COWARDICE, BUT I CALL IT BATTLEFIELD PREPARATION.

And if you don’t like it, well fuck you some more. Go cry in your fucking FroYo, you goddamn weakling.

Share this:

The following comment is pending approval in the moderation queue. The IP points at several locations across America on Sprint’s cellular network.

So are you gonna call into tomorrow’s show, Patrick? Bill posts the number to call into the show, so you should do it. Confront him man to man. You can’t be afraid of him. Are you? Are you afraid of him? HA. You are. That’s so cute. And don’t pull the i’m too busy crap because this blog is evidence that that’s bullshit. Call in and talk to Bill, big man. Show your son how a man handles his disputes.

Let’s get one thing clear right from the start – you’re wrong, Bill is wrong, everybody is wrong.

You do realize, do you not, that there are now at least three self-authenticating court documents floating around various Maryland courts asserting I am three different people, and all of them are wrong?

Bill Schmalfeldt’s perjured, retaliatory Peace Order from November 2014 identifies Patrick Grady as me. How interesting it would have been if Bill had shown up then – this notion that I am Patrick Grady would no longer be an issue, but Bill has publicly demonstrated his dishonesty and cowardice many, many times. It’s why he’s no longer welcome to comment on my blog. It’s why after blustering for weeks that he couldn’t WAIT! to get Grady under oath, he shuffled, weeping, just as fast as his sticky little legs could carry him – though not quite as fast as HIS children ran from him – for the hills above Elkridge with skirts held high. The Big Girly Girl had everything he’d begged for – a man-to-man confrontation, under oath, in open court – and what did he do?

He pussied out. Like the coward he is. And even worse, he TOLD EVERYONE WHAT A COWARD HE WAS AHEAD OF TIME! Oh, sure, he painted it as some magnanimous gesture (just like when he pussied out in June), but he does that with such regularity and predictability that no one ever believes him. He’s pussied out so many times he could be a Baltimore streetwalkerroller.

That’s a man who OWNS his cowardice. Must give props for that!

That was some terrific entertainment, watching him humiliate himself! There’s not much he can do with BBs as small as his, but he’s the best coward a zombie could ever hope to make dance.

Good stuff! Though I had to rest my LULZ muscle for a couple days after that. Well, we all have to make sacrifices…

When John Hoge posted the Cook County IL Stalking No Contact Order, and Bill called Pat Grady not two minutes later to ask if he was me, the tale was pretty much told, wouldn’t you say?

Not to be dissuaded in his desperate obsession, he tried again. In his recent Federal LOLsuit he named me and Howard Earl as anonymous defendants, then in the complaint he rererred to us as one and the same. So, obviously I’m not Patrick Grady (unless I’ve been pwning Bill as part of Knot My Wisconsin for 5 years – COOL!)…I’m anonymous again! Yay, me! Everybody celebrate with a Salt Monster avatar – WHOOO!

(Of course that was just one of a couple hundred fatal mistakes, but Not Educating The Monkey is sort of a thing around here, so…sorry.)

Or perhaps poor dumb Mr. Bill (on the tool bench, with the Sawzall!) is just fishing!

But me and Howard?

Our writing styles aren’t similar at all!

Even I must admit that if there’s one thing Bill knows, it’s writing styles. Well, right up until it comes time to admit that he wrote, in his very unique style, and signed, in his very own hand, a letter which was mailed to and received by WJJ Hoge III, one of several direct violations of a standing Peace Order by a deranged, adjudicated cyberstalker and harasser.

And coward. Let’s not forget about that.

And now, with Copyright Registration in hand – well, TDPK’s hand, if we’re speaking God’s honest truth – Bill has gotten placed in the public record an allegation that I am WJJ Hoge III!

Bill stinks of desperation. And fear. And where there is fear, there must be fear-pee. Stained sweat pants and stale diapers pungent with sulfur and natural ammonia.

And the ever-present cowardice that must not be forgotten.

Confront him man to man? How would that happen – does Bill even know any men he could bring with him? Grady tried it in November, and we all know how that turned out. Brave Sir William of Tincasa Skirtsflap, Lord High Duke of Cocksnogging and the Seventh Earl of Boyscout Buttsex scuttled off whimpering for a hiding place leaving a great snaily trail of greasy twat-sand leaking from his overfilled mangina. So I ask you, why bother trying again? He had his chance at the truth and ran like the…what, class? That’s right! – like the MEWLING CRYBABY COWARD THAT HE HAS ALWAYS BEEN, THE COMPLETE FUCKING EMBARRASSMENT TO THE ELDER BROTHERS WHO CONSTANTLY BAILED HIM OUT OF THE CORNERS HE BACKED HIMSELF INTO, BROTHERS WITHOUT WHOM HE IS A FLY BUZZING AROUND EAGLES.

Me, afraid? So sorry. Asked and answered, counselor.

The phrase you’re looking for is Smarter. Than. You. And him, and Brett, and surely Wee Willy FiFi. Did I leave anyone out?

Could I call him? Sure, I could make the time to call in, run rings around him, and make him look more foolish than he does his ownself, but what would be the point? It would be like trying to make horse manure smell bad, like trying to make mud dirty, like trying to make a trailer park a less attractive place to spend your golden years.

Why bother?

And as far as having a dispute with Bill, I would say it’s less of a dispute than a difference of opinion. He aims to get some sort of misbegotten revenge on me, because he made the mistake of writing something vile and filthy about another man’s wife and called it comedy, which I pumped up with steroids, threw back in his face and gived him sadz and butthurt. That he read it to his wife and upset her, too?

Not my problem.

I, on the other hand, aim to mock him until, one way or another, he goes away.

And besides, usually when a guest calls into an internet-chat show (radio? Hardly. This is WNBE, Radio Wannabe!), he GETS something out of it – he’s there to promote a product, a book, a movie, and album, a play, a business. Tell me, what does Paul Krendler GAIN from calling in to talk with world-famous former XM radio host and banned xmfan forum contributor, The Jovial One, Broadway Bill Schmalfeldt? Certainly not another opportunity to mock him mercilessly; those are as common as sand on a beach, and easier to find.

There’s nothing in it for me.

But if you and Bill are so sure that I’m Patrick Grady, isn’t the solution obvious? It’s a matter of public record that he has two phone numbers he can call to reach the man. Call him up.

…hmmm…would this be a good time to remind you…Coward? Yes, I think it would. Suck it up, man. Poke them digits.

Zombie’s can’t have children, but if I did they would all know Krendler’s Rules of Conflict Resolution:

Bleach destroys DNA.

Never forget Rule #1.

There are a hundred other reasons not to call. Most of them have to do with the fact that you and the rest of the non-existent yet transparent Team Kimberlin are both desperate and stupid, and I am neither.

Given that this assumes he ever played nice in the past, the statement is necessarily FALSE, in the face of all available evidence.

Now, the fisking that follows is predicated on an opinion published here quite recently. Based on the similarity of the writing style to other available samples, other statements that he has published which overshare about his own wife’s declining health, and the constant, undeniable projection in which he engages, my educated opinion is that the following “anonymous” comment by Westminster Winds at Breitbart Unmasked (oh HELL NO) was written by Bill Schmalfeldt:

What I want to know is why Hoge is not attending to his cancer stricken wife instead of psychologically molesting a teenage girl? Is his escape from the ravages of cancer to fantasize about teen sex? That is a sad commentary on Mr. Hoge, a well known citizen up here in Westminster. Can you imagine the conversation last night at dinner between Hoge and his wife. “John, please, I am in my last days, I don’t think I am going to make it. Please give me some peace. Please pay attention to me. Get off that computer. Be attentive to my needs. I have given my life to you and you are tormenting me in the twilight of my life with courts, and violent criminals, and your insane theories. You have me living in fear, as you have for years because you created enemies and then brought that home to me. I don’t want enemies. I want peace. I want to get well. And if I don’t get well, at least I want to live my final days without hearing one word about Bill, Brett, Aaron, Robert or Courts. John, I am dying and to be honest, the stress you put me through the past several years is what caused my cancer. I kept my emotions inside. I wondered why you are focusing on external things that have no bearing on our lives when you have me, the woman who is your wife. I will make you a deal, I will do my best to live as long as God allows me, but you have to promise me to walk away from all the chaos you have created. Give me peace in my final days. You owe that to me, John. I am your wife.”

Working from the more-than-reasonable assumption that this comment is Bill Schmalfeldt’s work, and also from the idea that perhaps his wife actually wants to spend her remaining days in the company of a loving, attentive husband without a fucking computer between them, let us juxtapose this brief essay with the possible thoughts expressed by his own ailing spouse:

What I want to know is why Hoge is not attending to his cancer stricken wife instead of psychologically molesting a teenage girl?

Because he’s too busy photoshopping poop into your beard? Oh, wait.. you do that. Not John Hoge

Is his escape from the ravages of cancer to fantasize about teen sex?

No, I think it’s probably the anal rape of Boy Scouts that he fantasizes…oh. Nope. That’s you again.

That is a sad commentary on Mr. Hoge, a well known citizen up here in Westminster.

Probably not as well as you are known by your fruits all across cyberspace. Some people might look upon that body of work as evidence of your “sterling reputation.” In some courtrooms it may be known as “a continuing course of conduct,” and often leads to restraining orders being issued.

Can you imagine the conversation last night at dinner between Hoge and his wife.

I’ll bet it sounded a lot like the conversation which you noted at DaysOfDecrepitude.

“John, please, I am in my last days, I don’t think I am going to make it.

John…Bill…whatever…just leave the wives out of it, right? Oopsie Poopsie.

Instead of incessantly pounding the F5 key on Twitter and Hogewash! and Thinking Man’s Zombie looking for things to wave under my nose and stress me out when I should be healing.

Get off that computer.

Get off the fucking computer and stop ignoring your dying wife.

Be attentive to my needs.

Like my need to bash the fucking computer into little shards of plastic and wire with your rolly walker. That’s a need I really believe would improve our lives if it were met.

I have given my life to you and you are tormenting me in the twilight of my life with courts, and violent criminals, and your insane theories.

I have given my life to you and you are tormenting me in the twilight of my life with courts, and violent criminals, and your insane theories.

You have me living in fear, as you have for years because you created enemies and then brought that home to me.

You have me living in fear, as you have for years because you created enemies and then brought that home to me.

I don’t want enemies.

I don’t have enemies. I want to stop hearing your unceasing whining about all the enemies that you would not have if you just had even the most modest portion of self-control. I mean really, what went wrong in your emotional wiring to think this was ever a good idea, and more to the point, that you would ever, from the discomfort of our little tin can, come up with a way to stop people on the internet from doing exactly to you, and by extension me, what you have spent years doing to them?

I want peace.

I want peace, and I’ve come to the realization that the only way I’m going to get it is for one of us to die. You’re a lot bigger than I am, so it seems that giving up the will to live is simply the most efficient and painless option.

I want to get well.

But only if you are going to pay attention to me. You have not demonstrated the slightest inclination that you are willing to change your behavior, so what’s the point?

And if I don’t get well, at least I want to live my final days without hearing one word about Bill, Brett, Aaron, Robert or Courts.

And if I don’t get well, at least I want to live my final days without hearing one word about John, Paul, Aaron, Eric, Howard, Grace, Jane, Nancy, Lee, Seth or any of the dozens of other netizens you constantly obsess over.

John, I am dying and to be honest, the stress you put me through the past several years is what caused my cancer. I kept my emotions inside.

Bill, I am dying and to be honest about it, I wish you would stop blogging about it. I know I’m not going to be able to prevent you live-tweeting from my deathbed the way you did to your mother, but if you really think that John’s wife’s cancer is somehow his fault, you must also accept your responsibility for my condition. I too have kept my emotions inside, to my great regret.

I wondered why you are focusing on external things that have no bearing on our lives when you have me, the woman who is your wife.

I wondered why you are focusing on attacking the wives of other men, when you should be paying attention to me, when you should be helping me, when you should be loving me, the woman who is your wife, with whom you may only have a few more short months, after which you will be left utterly alone in poverty to continue your online insanity until you finally choke and die on all the poisonous bile within you. Your enemies will wait, Bill. I will not. The only way you will ever be left alone is to destroy that infernal machine and focus on me. I don’t touch the thing and I can tell that it, and your toxic addiction to whatever happens on the other side of that screen, will be the end of you.

I will make you a deal, I will do my best to live as long as God allows me, but you have to promise me to walk away from all the chaos you have created.

I will make you a deal, I will not leave you alone for a long as God allows me to stay, but you have to promise me – not to get rid of the computer, for I am more merciful and generous than that – but to rent a storage locker and put the damned thing into it along with your iPad and give me the key. I will have it returned to you after the funeral. If you cannot live up to this promise, I will take a cab to the middle of the Chesapeake Bay Bridge and throw myself off. Deal? Deal. OK.

Give me peace in my final days.

One way or another.

You owe that to me, John. I am your wife.”

You may not think you owe me that, Bill, but one way or another, I will have it.

The devil(in mid-MonkeyDance) can cite Scripture for his purpose.An evil soul producing holy witnessIs like a villain with a smiling cheek,A goodly apple rotten at the heart:O, what a goodly outside falsehood hath!

He’s all butthurt over a picture with his face photoshopped on a guy who he thinks is having anal sex. I wish the guy who made that had photoshopped a real forehead over the thing that actually sits up there in the picture.

Poor, TJO, who calls people “tard.”

Poor TJO, who posts a nearly naked picture of himself in S&M gear from work computers on work time. Naughty, naughty! I wonder which of his boyfriends took that picture? I hope I don’t ever have cause to re-post it under the Fair Use Doctrine of U.S. Copyright Law. I mean, yikes!

Poor TJO, who probably had a very great deal to do with getting @brainsrfood gulaged. Didn’t slow me down one bit.

Now he can’t find me. Boo hoo. Unintended consequences and all that.

Until a couple of days ago, I thought he had only been a complete online loser for a couple of years. Now I find that the EPIC LUSERHUD goes back almost a decade, and maybe even more?

What a STERLING REPUTATION you had…8 years before I ever heard of you.

Come and get me, LUSER. Ryan, theaprilfool, jtdude0 and all your pals that I found are waiting.